


Shaken, not Stirred

by KuroiSei



Category: Death Parade (Anime), crossover - Fandom, xxxHoLic
Genre: Doumeki feels emotions, F/F, F/M, Gen, Himawari is a beautiful cinnamon roll too good for this world too pure, M/M, Multi, Multiple Endings, Other, douwata - Freeform, most of the gang are arbiters, not conforming to Death Parade canon, so much pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroiSei/pseuds/KuroiSei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man strode through the elevator doors and grabbed the unsuspecting bartender by the collar.</p><p>“Why the hell am I here?” he said, every syllable ripping through him like a cut to his flesh. </p><p>“I’m supposed to be dead! Why the fuck am I here?”</p><p>The arbiter’s pupils narrowed. Now this was something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaken, not Stirred

**Author's Note:**

> So here is the result of my overactive imagination and feelings over both of these amazing series! 
> 
> The story will be pretty different to both series, so basically it has a different plotline despite being set in the Death Parade setting. So you won't know what's going to happen!
> 
> So yeah, enjoy!

He was expecting customers today. He felt his eyes roll back into his head for a brief second as the incoming guest’s memories entered his mind, but they snapped back just in time for him to see that the customer had arrived early.

He looked angry. Knowing. Aware of his surroundings. Doumeki knew that those who entered through his doors had their memories wiped, and so even seeing the room could trigger immense confusion in any human, young or old, but this man was different. It was exceptional. He wondered what on earth could be going through the man’s mind, and began to filter through his memories for clues as to why this was happening. Nothing. _A terrible death, but a common one._ Apart from that, nothing was there that could be deemed unusual or that set off any alarm bells in his head. It was fascinating. He wondered where this man would end up.

The man strode through the elevator doors and grabbed the unsuspecting bartender by the collar.

“Why the hell am I here?” he said, every syllable ripping through him like a cut to his flesh. “I’m supposed to be _dead_! Why the fuck am I _here_?”

The arbiter’s pupils narrowed. Now _this_ was something new.

“You’re not supposed to know that,” the arbiter stated, with some degree of scepticism. “That’s not how this system works.”

“What do you mean, I’m not supposed to know that?” If the man had not been angry before, he was raging by this point, his voice loud and trembling somewhat, and his fingernails digging into the arbiter’s neck through his collar.

“When people come here, they’re not supposed to know that they are dead. That’s what the rule of this place is,” Doumeki sighed, “so I’ll have to deal with the consequences.”

“Huh.”

The man’s grip lessened and he eventually let go of the arbiter, trying in vain to calm his hectic breathing and sinking into the closest bar stool. He looked a little disappointed, staring down into his lap and rubbing the frames of his glasses with a cloth from his pocket, clearing them of either tears or sea water. Doumeki didn’t know which it was, but by the time the man had finished cleaning his glasses he had returned the arbiter’s stare with a mildly annoyed look. His face had softened somewhat following his earlier confrontation, and Doumeki had a feeling that this was the man’s default facial expression.

“I demand a towel.” The customer’s voice was barely audible over the jazz music that echoed about the bar, and he was muffling his face in his sleeve.

“What did you say?”

The customer lifted his head, clearly irritated.

“I said I demand a towel, asshole. My hair is fucking _soaking_. I, _the great Watanuki-sama_ , demand an offering of an appendage with which to dry my hair. Get it, you great hulking _oaf_? You probably don’t. I bet it doesn’t even ring any bells in your thick ape skull. _Me. Towel. Please. Now.”_

The customer had rounded off his epic speech with a finale of impressive and ridiculous arm gestures, and the arbiter decided that this customer would definitely be an interesting one, if not an amusing one.

After fetching the man, Watanuki, a towel, the arbiter gave a small sigh and returned to his place behind the bar.

“Want a drink?”

“Your strongest sake, please.” The customer had positively perked up now. Perhaps the alcohol would allow him to loosen up a little and get used to his predicament, if he had not already.

“As you wish.” The arbiter disappeared behind a purple velvet curtain for a second, returning brandishing two bottles of well-preserved sake with him. They were his grandfather’s sake. The boss valued them rather highly, but had surrendered a few to prepare for his guests in return for a few bottles of vintage red wine. The boss dealt in equal prices for equal requests. It was perhaps one of her better moral qualities.

He poured out a small cup of the stuff, and his customer practically snatched it away, holding it to his lips delicately and sipping. Sipping turned into gulping and gulping turned into downing a cup at once and downing several cups in the space of about ten minutes turned into the inevitable drowsy drunkard that had passed out onto the table before him.

Doumeki sighed. He should have foreseen this. The drink was rather strong, after all.

He carried the man over to the sofa and covered him in a blanket that he had found in the storeroom. _That should do for now,_ he thought.

-

The boss visited that night. Her red silk kimono drifted effortlessly through the room, and her loose collar left little to the imagination. She sensed the customer asleep on the sofa, and wandered over to him with dark but curious eyes.

“I got your phone call, Doumeki. I see we’ve got quite the piece of work here.”

She stroked the man’s face, brushing his hair back from his face with delicate fingers.

“What do you intend to do with him?” The boss asked, withdrawing her hand to rest it on the arm of the sofa and lifting her eyes in the arbiter’s direction.

“He would never agree to play any games with a mind as aware as his,” the arbiter debated, “so we would have to give him a fresh start to make an unbiased judgement.”

Yuuko smiled. “Then you know what you must do.”

She swept away into the elevator, ordering the soulless operator girls to send her to the top floor and bidding the arbiter goodbye with a small wave.

As much as he hated to admit it, Yuuko was right.

He cast a hand over the young man's head, drawing the memories from his mind with a flick of his wrist. _Here goes take two._

**Author's Note:**

> To those that have seen xxxHolic but not Death Parade:
> 
> 1\. Arbiters are those who judge the souls of the dead, such as Doumeki.
> 
> 2\. The building that the bar resides in is one where souls are sorted into the void or the reincarnation cycle. This does not always correspond to good or evil.
> 
> 3\. Playing a game at the bar helps to create an 'extreme scenario', often using pain as a tool to carve out the uglier side of people's personalities and supposedly easing an Arbiter's judgement.
> 
> That should be all for now! Everything else will be made clear in the story, to make it accessible as possible.


End file.
